


Victor/Victorious

by calrissian18



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Post Nogitsune
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 18:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1657565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn’t exactly afraid of the dark so much as he was afraid of <i>everything</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victor/Victorious

**Author's Note:**

> So. What happened was. *coughs* I wrote this for mating_games, so I could hide it under anon and pretend it never happened but then it was way too long and I'd already finished and I was super sad over having this fic I could never ever share decompose slowly in gdocs (I assume that's what they do, I don't rightly know). Then my bestest bud, [Barbayat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbayat), said she would read it, see how I did with it, even though she doesn't like Nogitsune stuff nor is she into this pairing and she said super wonderful things and encouraged me to say 'fuck anon' and post it.
> 
> Then I [asked](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/post/86192408684/so-super-hypothetically-awkward-cringing) my tumblr followers and they said I should do it, too. SO ALL BLAME LIES WITH THEM. *hides under everything* Feel free to ignore this little anomaly if it's not your bag and I'll get back to more regularly scheduled things maintenant. Good day!

It was a layered feeling, still half-asleep and trying to hide from consciousness, to burrow back down into the realm of too-awake-to-dream but in enough of a doze to be unaware of his surroundings.  A callused hand was pressed to his clammy forehead, brushing back the swoop of his hair at the same time that something with sharp teeth was roaming around inside his brain.

He could count the number of people he knew who could even _grow_  calluses on one hand and the nogitsune was gone, crumbled to thousand-year-old dust.  His father was the reality, the nogitsune was the nightmare.  He wanted for some blissful in between when his dad started stroking his thumb against the side of his head.

He turned into it with a groan and a kiss that was meant for his temple planted on his slack mouth.

The fight to stay subsumed in some void space disappeared and Stiles’ eyes popped open automatically, staring into the whites of his dad’s as he did the same.

He expected him to pull back, clear his throat and leave the room after awkwardly bumping a fist into his shoulder, but instead he looked straight into Stiles’ eyes, letting his own slowly shutter and deepened the slot of their mouths.  Stiles felt the mattress dip, his dad’s knee coming up next to his hip, a hand planting near his head, bracing himself half over Stiles as a tongue brushed against the soft inside of his lower lip.

And Stiles wasn’t stopping him, wasn’t pulling back shocked and disgusted.  He was fisting his hands in the sides of his dad’s uniform, holding him tight, opening his mouth to the brush of his tongue.  His dad was the one who put a stop to it, eyes still closed and resting their foreheads together, Stiles’ cold and his dad’s warm.

“You think you can get back to sleep?”  His breath was hot and right against Stiles’ mouth.  It made Stiles’ slick lips dry too quickly, feel itchy.

Stiles swallowed, let his own eyes slide towards the other side of his room.  The chair was pulled back from his desk like his dad had been sleeping in it again, arms crossed over his chest and feet at the ankles and propped up on the end of Stiles’ bed, ready to wake him the moment he needed it.  He scanned further.  The nightlight plugged into the wall socket near his door seemed dimmer than yesterday.

He wasn’t exactly afraid of the dark so much as he was afraid of  _everything_.

“Can you?” he asked, hollow, licking his lip.

His dad huffed out a laugh, pulled back further and rubbed a hand over his forehead.  He seemed tired and worn, smaller somehow when his uniform had only ever made his seem larger than life.  “I don’t sleep anymore,” he murmured quietly.  His eyes refocused on Stiles, vulnerable and shining.  “Too much to protect against.  Things I never even knew existed—things I never could have imagined—”

“It’s dead, I told you.”

His dad shook his head.  “There are other things, Stiles.  It never ends.”

He looked like a real person, lost and breakable and nothing like his dad, who had all the answers, who’d held them both together—however shoddily—after his mom died.  Stiles braced himself up on his elbows, leaned in slowly and pressed a chaste kiss to his dad’s mouth because the look on his face, heartbroken at the thought of losing him, was too much to bear.  “Stay?”

His dad let out a heavy breath, nodded against Stiles’ forehead and kissed back hard, until Stiles was pressed back down onto his pillows again.

Stiles rolled onto his side and, in the end, wasn’t all that surprised when the flat of his dad’s hand smoothed over his abdomen where the nogitsune had cut into him, reassuring himself that Stiles was whole and well.  Stiles let his eyes slide shut, aware of how normal this all seemed when it couldn’t be farther from it.  He tried not to dream.

He woke to his dad breathing hard and a tight grip being seared into his bicep.  Stiles elbowed him off without thinking about it—pain and stopping it the only things in his head.  His dad was awake in the span of a heartbeat and reaching behind himself to get his gun off the nightstand.

“It was a nightmare.”  Stiles had been having one too, just more quietly.  He was soaked in a cold sweat and shaking under his comforter.

There was a grunt from behind him and his dad rolled back, bracketing Stiles’ hips with his own and Stiles felt a swallow work its way down his throat.  He reached down, pulling up the legs of his boxers as high as they would go.  Between his thighs was warm and damp and he pressed back further until he had a hand on his dad through his pants, the hardness he’d felt as real as the sweat beading on his own upper lip.

“Stiles—”

Stiles shook his head, parted his legs.  “I’m not asking you to pretend anything.”  He didn’t need his dad to put up some token resistance before giving in.  It didn’t feel wrong and acting as if it did wouldn’t make either one of them feel like better people.

He heard the clinking sound of a belt buckle being undone, pants unzipped, and then his dad was thrusting between his thighs.  Stiles shoved a hand down his boxers, bit his lip and didn’t feel anything other than content when he came to the feel of his dad planting wet kisses on the back of his neck and murmuring things too low to hear.

Stiles stared at his come-covered fingers with blank eyes.  “It victimized you, too,” he whispered, only just coming to realize it in that moment.  What was behind this.  What had twisted them to this.

His dad sighed, breath brooking against the back of his ear and making Stiles shiver.  His voice was jagged.  “I barely saw it.  You said you remembered all of it so you know I didn’t have much to do with it.”

Stiles wiped his hand against his shirt, pressed back into the curve of his dad’s body.  He was so cold and his dad was so warm.  “About the MRI, you said you thought it was trying to dishearten me?”

His dad’s mouth rested heavily against the shoulder of Stiles’ shirt.  “It wasn’t real,” he mumbled into it.

Stiles shook his head.  He was missing the point.  “That wasn’t my fear it was playing on.  It was yours.”  It was quiet between them, not even the sound of his dad’s breathing there to disrupt the stillness.  “When I went missing, that was for your benefit, too.  When it happened after the lacrosse game, you were—it used that.  It was torturing you.  To torture me.  It was trying to show us what it would be like to—if the other died.”  It was what had given them this desperate need, this constant fear, right under the surface, what had made them feel like satisfying it was worth whatever lengths they had to go to.

It had been trying to break them, Stiles realized, and as he laid there—his dad’s hand warm against the cold come on his shirt, his spunk cooling between Stiles’ thighs and a feeling of nothing more than an almost indifferent satisfaction about it—he realized something else too: It had succeeded. 


End file.
